Moonlight
by tyb93
Summary: Will be a series of one-shots, mostly based off of one-word prompts and centering around Jerome/Mara. Rated T for language. Prompts are welcome!
1. 2 am

_2 a.m._

_2 __**fucking**__ a.m._

The house was dark and still. Exasperated, Jerome finally sat up in his bed, running his fingers through his hair for what felt like the thousandth time that night.

He glanced out of the window: the Anubis garden grounds lay illuminated in the light of the moon. It was mid-September, but summer still lingered in the air. In the garden, like soldiers in August's last charge, the roses were in full bloom. Thriving ivory clung to the benches and statues.

Looking around the room, Jerome could make out Alfie's slumbering form on the bed in the opposite corner. His best friend was sleeping soundly, snoring lightly, having become used to Jerome's fitful nights by now.

_Insomnia._

Add that to the list of things that had come with starting the new year. He had had occasional restless nights this past summer, but being back in Anubis House seemed to have amplified whatever in his system was rendering him incapable of sleeping. He found himself spending more and more of each night lying awake.

Frustrated, he got up, and, being careful to make as little noise as possible, crept out of his room.

Jerome didn't know what the hell happened this summer, but coming back to Anubis House for his final year, everything had been different. On the first day, Jerome couldn't help but do double takes as he greeted his housemates. Fabian, Patricia, Amber. People he had known since he was ten years old walked through the doors of Anubis and, somehow, felt like strangers. They had all changed.

He couldn't pinpoint how or why, but he felt it. They all did. Even though the first couple of weeks of term went on as usual, it was as if the very house had changed-the energy inside it was different, restless, more sinister.

Jerome shook those thoughts from his head, which throbbed with a searing pain.

_Why not eat insomnia away?_

He thought to himself as he walked down the hallway, feeling his way along the wall with his right hand. His head felt groggy and sluggish. His body was sore, and he was tired as hell but couldn't manage to fall asleep. He stumbled toward the kitchen, grumbling to himself.

Maybe something greasy and buttery and cheesy would make him feel better...

_Cheese..._

He loved cheese…He loved cheese so much he should write a song for it…or a poem…a statue memorial?...

As he finally rounded the corner into the kitchen, he stopped dead in his tracks, nonsense thoughts coming to a halt.

In the darkness of the living room, a solitary lamp was still on. Underneath it, curled up in an armchair, a discarded book in her lap, Mara Jaffray was asleep. The floor around the chair was strewn with various textbooks and papers, and her backpack lay open on the coffee table.

_She must have stayed up late doing homework._

A part of his brain told him to turn around and creep back to his room as quietly as possible. Jerome knew he had to stay as far away from Mara as possible. If her mean, borderline-cruel treatment of him last year wasn't enough of a reason, Joy had come back from the summer with new problems of her own, testier and easily aggravated. Being anywhere near Mara was completely and definitely not allowed.

The other part of his brain-the one usually reserved for coming up with pranks, the one that never did as it was told, and the one that _always_ seemed to get him into trouble-dared him to do what he knew he wasn't allowed to.

Creeping forward, his earlier food mission forgotten, he stopped just short of Mara's sleeping form.

He had come across her like this plenty of times in the many years he'd known her. She had a habit of falling asleep down here, in the middle of slaving away at some assignment.

She was breathing deeply, completely knocked out, one hand under her head, the other resting against the open book in her lap.

She looked peaceful, a break from the strange, troubled expression she had come back from the summer sporting.

An expression somehow even more heartbreaking than the almost cruel look she would give him last year, when, in the wake of his cheating, he had seen a different side of her. Her revenge antics had gotten progressively crueler, until every form of interaction with her had become painful.

He had been shocked, to say the least. He didn't know she had that in her. As it turned out, he really didn't know her at all.

Although lately, he had to admit to himself, he felt like he didn't know anything anymore.

Later he would blame it on his insomnia, tell himself he wasn't feeling well, and try to pretend it was all a dream. Even blame the new weird vibe the house was giving off.

But right then, Jerome impulsively reached out, and ran his thumb gently down the sleeping girl's cheek, feeling a warm tingling spread through him from the point of contact. Mara's eyelids fluttered, but she didn't wake. Just as the warmth spread to his stomach, he stood up quickly, strange, difficult-to-name feelings surging through him. Slowly backing away, Jerome kept his eyes peeled on her, planning a quick exit in case she stirred, but Mara remained asleep.

He suddenly felt better and realized with a start that his headache was completely gone. He stifled a yawn as tiredness finally overcame him.

In the hallway, he finally turned away, but not before taking one last glance at the girl in the other room and the paper mess strewn around her.

Jerome smirked.

_It was nice to see that, despite everything, some things never changed._


	2. Sky

Mara gazed up at the early September sky. It was a clear and warm night. You could see the stars. Hundreds of them. Their light seemed to illuminate everything.

Form her spot on the bench, she surveyed the garden.

Roses were still blooming, and a gentle breeze stirred the strands of Mara's hair. She clung tighter to her shawl as a sudden gust ruffled the folds of her nightgown. The scent of ripe roses caught in the wind and floated over to her.

Everything was aglow. The moonlight seemed to cascade down in long rays: the faces of the flowers, the roof of Anubis house, and the cotton material of Mara's nightgown, bathed in the strange light, looked ghostly. If she didn't know any better, she could almost believe she was in a dream.

By contrast, the side of the house itself, thrown into shadow by the roof, looked dark and ominous. The brick building, with its black windows and ivy-encrusted walls, looked gnarled and hunched over on itself, like some mangled monster. She shivered as she glanced at it.

_What kind of secrets was it hiding? _

A lot had changed over the summer. Nowadays, Mara tried hard not to think about last year at all.

She could vividly remember the day last spring when she woke up, looked in the mirror, and didn't recognize the girl looking back at her, couldn't see past the hate that seemed to mark her eyes like a scar.

She had hoped that the new year would bring a new beginning, but that wasn't the case. Everyone was acting strange. It was subtle, hard to put into words, but things were different. She could feel it, and she hated it.

God, she was so sick of it. She was _so_ sick of feeling miserable. Last year, her life had turned into a spectacular disaster that she barely managed to salvage.

…

"_You shouldn't have to say anything. What kind of a friend would I be if I stood in your way? Be happy."_

…

She had said it to Joy. She had meant it. She wanted more than anything for her friend to be happy. Now it was her turn to do the same.

Somewhere along the way last spring, Mara had lost herself—the person she thought she was. She had spent the painful summer trying to find that girl. Forgive her, accept her, and let her be happy.

_Be happy, Mara. _

Casting another glance at the garden and catching another whiff of the roses, Mara jumped to her feet.

The breeze picked up, and its warmth felt wonderful against her face. She glanced up at the sky once more and giggled, suddenly filled with a strange giddiness. She gave a twirl as the breeze lifted the tips of her nightgown off the ground. She kept spinning, stretching her arms out, caught up in the way the light reflected off her skin, making it look like it was almost glowing.

Her giggle turned into an outright laugh as she burst into a dorky dance around the garden, silly and strangely uninhibited. Twirling until she felt herself get dizzy.

She sank back down onto the bench, throwing her head back, taking in the luminous, wondrous sky.

Her glance flicked back to the kitchen door that she had left open, and her laughter died in her throat.

Leaning against the doorframe, staring at her intently, face in shadows, was the last person she expected to see right now.

Jerome Clarke.

A million thoughts ran through her head as Jerome, aware that she had spotted him, began walking toward her.

_Things won't be weird. Don't let things be weird anymore. _ She chanted to herself as she stood up. She was in a good place. She was determined to mend her relationship with Jerome this year. As difficult as it may be. She was a different Mara now, better in so many ways. She had hurt Jerome, and she wanted to make it up to him.

They would be friends...They could be friends.

"Hello," she said, as he stopped just short of her.

"Good morning." Jerome replied, smirking. "_Three_ in the morning, to be precise. I knew you were your own brand of weird, Jaffray, but what in the world are you doing out here this time of night?"

His tone was light, but she felt the current of tension running underneath. She knew almost instinctively how he really felt, that the light banter was an act. It suddenly occurred to her that he was trying, _really_ trying, and she couldn't help the smile that formed at that.

Jerome stopped just short of her, hands in the pockets of the sweatpants he slept in.

"What? Is there some sort of comet only you and Stephen Hawking know about passing through? Some obscure, nerdy astronomical phenomena you had to come out and see at this godforsaken hour? Or don't tell me, you've taken to studying here now? Does moonlight improve brain waves?" he chided.

It felt almost second nature for her to roll her eyes.

"Wouldn't hurt you or your grades to try and find out, Jerome," she quipped quietly. He stared down at her, surprise and bemusement flashing in his eyes.

"I just couldn't sleep for some reason," she explained, as they both studied the ground and their bare feet. "Been happening a lot recently. Don't know why."

"Same." Jerome replied quietly, gazing up intently at Mara. A gusty breeze blew by, setting her shawl askew, and Jerome's eyes flickered to her shoulder, then up to the way strands of her hair briefly danced around her face, before settling on her eyes. He peered into them, searching, brow suddenly knitted.

"Listen Jerome….I just wanted to tell you… thing is, is I just wanted to say," she trailed off again, so intent all of a sudden on looking anywhere besides Jerome's face that she was surprised her eyes weren't boring a hole into his right shoulder.

_Why was this so hard? _

"Look, I just wanted to tell you: even in light of what happened with us, with _me_…last year, I really think we could...I really, really would like nothing more than for us to try and be fr-"

"_Don't_."

Jerome's reply came out a hard, pained whisper. She glanced up at him, mouth falling open with surprise. Jerome's face was unreadable for a moment, and then his expression became a mix of terror and shock, as if he couldn't quite believe his own words.

"I-I…j-just don't….I-I don't want th-..."he stammered and shut his eyes, running a shaking hand through his hair. She took a step closer, concerned, and he backed away just as quickly. He stared at her a moment longer, mouth attempting to form words, before taking a few more steps back and finally turning away from her completely.

She watched as his retreating form disappeared into the house and sucked in a ragged breath she didn't know she'd been holding, a strange ache appearing somewhere inside her.

"I…"

Gazing up at the brilliant moon once again, she attempted to collect her racing thoughts.

_B-Be happy, Mara. _


	3. Letter

_Dear Mara,_

_I am glad to hear from you. Your correspondence has meant a lot to me too…_

Jerome held the letter in his hands, visibly willing his fingers not to shake.

"How long have you been writing each other?" he asked, voice gone rough and somehow deafening in the quiet room.

"Since we met," Mara replied quietly. Her throat felt dry, and she had to make an effort to speak.

"Your father worries about you. After that first meeting, he wasn't sure how things between you were going to go. He just wanted to know you, to keep up with you. He asked me to write to him."

"Where you ever going to tell me?" Jerome asked.

He didn't turn around as he folded the piece of paper in his hands. He looked tense standing there in the middle of her unlit bedroom.

Mara watched the setting sun, shining through her window, as it crept across the boy's back.

"He asked me not to," she replied, running a tired hand over her eyes. "When he asked me to write to him, he made me promise I wouldn't tell you."

"So does he know everything?"

Mara took a deep breath, hands knotting nervously.

"Yes," she said quietly. "Yes, he does."

"I stopped writing him last year, when I...when we…um." Mara paused, stumbling on her words.

The familiar, painful feeling in her stomach that seemed to surface whenever she thought back to what transpired between her and Jerome last year hit the girl with a pang.

When things had taken a turn for the worse, she quickly ended the correspondence. At first, Mara stopped writing because she had been too angry at Jerome, too hurt, and she took it out on John, his father and the person she had strangely come to like through their letters.

John was a lot like his son—intelligent, honest, caring.

At first their letters had been all about Jerome, who had a bad habit of never writing and whose relationship with his father was still fragile and icy. However, gradually, she began writing more and more about herself. Her aspirations, her fears—things she had never shared with her own father. John became a kind friend, a real father figure in place of her own, who had never had a thought to spare for much of anything outside the world of sports, let alone for his daughter.

As the year progressed and the ugly war between her and Jerome continued, she became more and more angry, more ashamed and stopped writing entirely, refusing to answer his increasingly worried letters. She could tell from what he wrote though that his son had ceased whatever limited communication they had shared as well.

But the summer changed things. She caved, forced herself to write John again and told him everything—every last ugly and embarrassing detail. He had asked to see her, and she had gathered the nerve to visit him.

…

"_It's all __such__ a mess," she mumbled, furiously wiping at her eyes_.

"_It will get better, Mara. Take it from me—no one knows more about making mistakes and righting wrongs" John replied, gazing ruefully at her. _

"_Everyone loses their way, some more so than others," he said gesturing at himself and the room at large. "But your real friends, the people that truly love you, will forgive you in time. Believe me…"_

_She hadn't been able to keep it in at that and burst into sobs in the middle of the room, earning them odd looks from guards and inmates alike. _

...

John had been so kind, too kind, to her. He hadn't once mentioned Jerome, even though she was sure he'd been dying to. She knew the father-son relationship had only worsened, becoming increasingly strained through the summer months.

Mara paused, trying to gather her racing thoughts. She turned her gaze to the window, where the sun continued its decent over the grounds—its last rays pushing further and further into her room.

Jerome cast a brief glance at her. His gaze was piercing, intense. In it, Mara read plainly the anger that marred the surface and the gut-wrenching hurt brewing deeper down. She watched him school his gaze—a bad attempt at bored indifference illuminated by the growing light.

"He wants so badly to hear from you," she said finally.

Jerome's gaze widened, and, for a moment, she could see an eager flicker of hope, whose appearance seemed to send a shot of agonizing pain right to her very center, before he turned his back again.

Mara took a shallow breath, the pain she felt for the boy in front of her still throbbing in her chest.

"You should write to him," she managed to add.

Jerome's back tensed at her words; he curled his hand around the letter, balling it in his fist.

"He misses you," she said simply, her voice a whisper in the large room.

Jerome's body seemed to react almost violently to her words. He cast another glance at her, and this time, all she saw was bitterness.

In an agitated sweep, he tossed the crumpled sheet of paper across the room, turned on his heel and brushed past Mara, stalking out of sight down the hallway.

She stood there a moment, seemingly spent, then quickly walked across the room and retrieved the crumpled letter, smoothing it over as she sank onto her bed. She looked around her bedroom, now completely bathed in dying sunlight.

"…_I know it's hard, Mara. But even in the greatest darkness, there is light." _


	4. Laugh

His father once told him a good man has to stay one step ahead of everyone else. Don't let them catch up to you, catch on to you. That philosophy is probably what had made John Clarke such a good thief, until he finally got caught.

That philosophy is what made his son such a good chess player, so good at pulling the perfect pranks. So good at lying. Jerome prided himself on staying one step ahead of everyone and everything. One step ahead of his friends, his teachers, his parents. One step ahead of sadness, loneliness, pain.

Chin up, Clarke. Stay one step ahead, and you never have to lose.

**… … … ...**

Looking back on it, it _could_ be said this was all Jerome's fault.

Sort of. Kind of. Actually.

Admittedly, he had been the one who convinced Mick and Alfie to steal the girl's laundry from the dryer one Saturday and spread it across the grounds just as they happened to be returning from town—right in the _knick _of time, one could say.

But that was really nothing—a lighthearted prank, a simple joke. Besides it brought a nice change from the weird, dark gloom that'd been clamped over the house like a coffin lid since the beginning of term. He was long overdue for a prank anyway—he had a reputation to maintain—and the idea was brilliant.

Jerome did NOT deserve this.

**… … … ...**

You see, the whole thing was perfect, really.

Walking down to breakfast that morning, with a sleepy Alfie and Mick in tow, he spotted it across the hall before he even got down the stairs. He saw the string, tied across the dining room doorway, waiting for a poor, unsuspecting soul to trip. A classic, amateur move. A prank clearly thought up by the inferior girl mind.

What he didn't see was the bishop—the tiny, black chess piece just beyond the wire—lying on the floor, on its side, just so. Placed perfectly, ready to send anyone who stepped on it skidding and tumbling down.

Yep, bloody brilliant idea, Jerome thought, as he made an exaggerated step with his other foot, trying and failing to keep his body upright, the chess piece rolling out from underneath the sole of his shoe as he made painful contact with the floor.

What he _also_ didn't see was the assortment of water balloons perched precariously on the edge of the dining room table, until Alfie, in an ill-thought attempt to stop himself from tripping over Mick (who had already tripped over Jerome), made to yank at the tablecloth and sent it and the colorful water bombs spilling directly over their heads.

Genius.

**… … … ...**

Laughter rings from the kitchen as the three boys, soaked thoroughly, scramble over each other on the floor. Jerome looks up to see Joy, Amber, Nina, Patricia, and Mara materialize from behind the cabinets. Joy, Amber, and Patricia are laughing so hard they're out of breath, Mara is grinning quietly, and Nina is trying to stifle a giggle behind her hand.

Lying there, in the midst of it all, the chuckle bubbles out of him completely without his permission, before his mind can catch up. He looks around, sees Alfie and Mick making futile attempts to stand. The dining room floor is wet beneath them. Jerome hears Amber and Joy giggling uncontrollably, Trixie cackling. Mick makes it about halfway up, arm bracing against the door, before Alfie grabs his other hand ("Oi! Mate, let go!") and takes both of them down in a tangle of limbs.

Jerome's chuckle turns into an outright laugh, head thrown back. Alfie throws him a glare as he scrambles across the wet hardwood. Amid the sound of his own laughter, he catches bits of Alfie's rant as his best friend scrambles to get up.

"…—started this, mind you….my bum hurts….your fault…."

Jerome's stomach hurts from laughing so hard.

Fabian bounds down the stairs, two at a time, and into the kitchen, startled from bed by all the noise. The look on his face as he takes in the mess in front of him is enough to bring on fresh peals of laughter from the girls and send tears down Jerome's face.

**… … … ...**

Walking back up the stairs later, Jerome remembers what his father told him. You must stay one step ahead of everyone.

His father had been right of course. The man had never done anything right in Jerome's lifetime, left a raw, blazing trail of mistakes and resentment in his wake, but about this, he had been absolutely correct.

John himself endorsed his own philosophy many times. When he said he'd visit for Christmas, Jerome remembered his advice, anticipated he would never show, and managed to stay one step ahead of dear old dad.

All in all, it was a foolproof theory.

Being John Clarke's son for 16 years had taught Jerome that if your mind stayed one step ahead of life, you could convince yourself your heart stayed one step ahead of disappointment.

**… … … ...**

He enters her room unheard. Mara's busy stuffing books into her school bag. He had always wondered how she could cram so many inside, Mary Poppins style.

"That was some trick."

She startles and turns to face him, expression quickly schooled into neutral.

Jerome is completely soaked. His school cardigan is dark with water stains, and the white shirt underneath clings to his skin as he stands in the middle of her bedroom. The boy runs a finger through his hair, a wet mess falling into his eyes. She is staring back at him blankly, the picture of innocence. But he knows, oh, he _knows_.

"I'm not quite sure what you mean, Jerome…." Mara answers back, trying to appear unfazed, small smile teasing at the edge of her lips.

He rolls his eyes, throws her a soft glare. There's no heat behind it; he's still trying to figure out how she pulled it off.

"…but, if you are referring to the prank _someone_ pulled on you lot this morning, then yes, it was some trick….I wonder who could have done it. Someone wickedly clever and cunning no doubt."

He snorts at that. She pretends not to hear him and continues.

"I mean we may never know. This mastermind is clearly good at covering her tracks. _Or his tracks..._ that is to say…."

The girl rambles on, avoiding eye contact, and Jerome can feel laughter threatening to surface once again.

"…I mean it could be a he…or a she….or a them…."

Jerome's full-on chuckling, watching her stumble on her words. Mara pauses in her rant and, throwing a sheepish glance up at Jerome, grins back.

For a moment they're both silent and it's suddenly awkward and he sees that Mara has this forceful need to just speak, to fill this silence. So she does, unaware of what she's saying, unsure if she's about to fess up, offer an explanation, or just ramble.

"It's really nice to hear you laugh."

The next part is most definitely Jerome's fault.

Two strides put him mere inches from her, hand tugging at the jacket pocket of her uniform, and he doesn't give her a chance to react to the closeness before his mouth is hot and soft against hers. He stoops, pulling her towards him, one hand pressing urgently against her lower back, bringing her body up and into his. His other hand twists into her hair.

She puts her hands on his chest reflexively, and he isn't sure if it's to push him away or pull him closer. He's cold from the water seeped in his clothes, and she feels so hot against him, her proximity pumping blood to the tips of his fingers, to his heart, to his whole body. Her response is tentative, slow, but Jerome presses forward, coaxing it out, eager to explore her mouth when she parts it slightly. He kisses her gasp away, hears himself let out a sound…_Mara…Mara…Mara_…low and rumbling in his throat.

Their lips meet with a loud, wet noise. She opens up to him completely, and he feels the heat in his stomach travel, simmering, lower and lower.

He doesn't realize his hands have wandered, one flexing into Mara's hip and the other grazing over her chest, until his thumb brushes a sensitive spot and she hisses. The noise seems to rouse her, and he manages to chase her lips for a few more quick kisses before she pulls back completely, forehead against his, panting heavily, eyes closed shut.

After a while, Jerome pulls back too, taking in the sight of her. The cardigan under her jacket is wet where their chests had met, and a few strands of hair falling near her face are damp from where he'd curled his fingers into them. There are water droplets all over her: on her forehead, where his had been a moment before, on her eyelids, on her cheek, on her lips…oh God, her lips.

Jerome leans his forehead back against hers, tries to collect himself and reign in the giddy feeling that's spurring the butterflies in his stomach into a frenzy. His heart is thudding so intensely, he's struck by the oddly happy thought that it could push itself out of his chest and into Mara's.

He tries to clear his head, clam down, but he can feel himself shaking and can't seem to stop. He waits until her breathing evens out, till she opens her eyes, confused, suddenly weary, and slightly dazed.

Jerome knows he looks just as wrecked as he feels. He tries to sound casual, but his voice cracks, comes out quite and breathless,

"C-check mate."

**… … … ...**

He somehow manages to stumble away from her, suddenly terrified of what had happened, ignoring the instinct screaming at him to turn back, bring her mouth to his again, and never let her go. He's gone so quickly, he doesn't see her reach into her jacket pocket and pull out the small, black object slipped inside.

**… … … ...**

Jerome's standing in the bathroom, pulling off his drenched clothes, still shaking, when his reflection catches his eye.

His hair is a wet mess, his lips are wet too, swollen, a deep red, and his eyes are dancing, irises blown wide. His brain is still fuzzy, unsure of what just happened; his heart is beating rapidly, mixed up, elated, terrified all at once.

His father said that if you stay one step ahead of everyone else, then no one can ever get to you. You stay ahead and you're safe, you're happy, you can't lose.

Standing half naked in the bathroom, peering into the mirror, he smirks at his reflection as the realization hits him.

**... ... ... ...**

Jerome Clarke was one step behind Mara Jaffray, and he suddenly felt like, for the first time in a long time, he'd finally won.


End file.
